Happy Christmas, Agent Ward
by starfish.dancer
Summary: A SHIELD assignment, a snowstorm and a scientist make for an interesting holiday for one Agent Grant Ward. Written for the Biospecialist Holiday Gift Exchange.


**Happy Christmas, Agent Ward**

"So, there's good news, bad news and more good news," Trip says without preamble when Grants hits the button to connect his cell to the blue tooth. He squints into the snow whipping into his windshield, the wipers of the car doing their frantic best against the blowing storm.

"What's the bad news," Grant says, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the road as the car creeps forward at the agonizingly slow pace he has to maintain so as not to drive into a tree.

"The good news," Trip ignores him, as per his usual wont, "is that the whole supervillain plot was a false alarm. Mission cancelled, no secret SHIELD interference required after all."

"Really," Grant says flatly. He's completely unimpressed, having been pulled off his undercover op and into this shit storm of a snow storm just because someone at the top had been certain there was an actual threat to global security. Thankfully, the whole thing won't be totally blown – a Christmas trip isn't that hard a sell – but it is still as inconvenient as fuck.

"Really," Trip confirms over a peal of laughter coming from the background. Stark's Christmas party for Avengers and affiliates is clearly in full swing. "CIA sent in a consultant who confirmed the hoax."

"We're trusting a CIA hire for intel now?"

"You're lucky you're not on speaker, because Sharon'd kick your ass for that remark."

"Still might," breaks through the background, and Grant sighs, because of course Trip is letting his girlfriend eavesdrop.

"She could try," Grant says blithely.

"Anyway," Trip says, "the intel's good. Dr. Simmons is one of the leading experts in the biochemistry field, and before you can ask why Shield hasn't tried to recruit her then, we have. Repeatedly. She finally thanked Fury and said she didn't fancy herself being limited by red tape and stodgy government rules."

"She said that? To Fury's face?"

"It was wildly hilarious, according to Hill. You should have her do her impression some time."

"So she's good, then? This doctor?"

"She's good," Trip confirms. "Debunked this Kassius' plot pretty quickly, once she got there. Turns out he had enough knowledge to make a very credible sounding threat, but not enough to actually pull of the science he was claiming. There's a bit of suspicion he may be more interested in trying to get Doctor Simmons' attention than global domination. CIA is handling the next steps in tracking him down."

"So what's the bad news, then?"

"Well," Trip says, and that's definitely amusement in his voice, "you might have noticed it's snowing in your area."

"Yeah, just a little," Grant snarks.

"Well it's enough that your extract is stalled, too, so… I'm sending coordinates to a safe house to your phone, and you'll have to hunker down there until we can get a Quinjet in. With the scientist, because she's weathered in too, and needed some place to stay, out of the way of certain wannabe supervillains with stalker-like tendencies."

Grant swears, and loudly. "Are kidding me? I'm on fucking babysitting duty?"

"'Fraid so; Coulson even filed the paperwork already." Grant hopes Trip can feel him glaring over the line. "On the bright side, she's in the know about SHIELD, so you don't have to figure out a cover, and the place is decently stocked. Our contact's already got her set up there."

"And why can't they look after her?"

"They're retired SHIELD, not on active duty, and you're not going to get anywhere on those roads in the next couple of days anyway. Besides, while the world might not be in danger from this Kassius creep, Dr. Simmons most likely _is._ But hey, there's still that good news."

"What?" Grant grits out.

"Now you don't have to go to the Ward family Christmas Passive Aggressive torture session."

"I never go, and you damn well know that."

"What's that? Your signal is breaking up,"' Trip says clear as day, and someone – probably Sharon – makes ridiculously fake static sounds in the background. They aren't even _trying._

"Trip, c'mon. I'm sure someone can get a jet in here. Send May. Hell, send Barton." Listening to his terrible puns for the length of the plane ride has got to be better than bodyguard duty.

"Sorry, Grant, Coulson's orders. You're sticking with the scientist until the CIA contains the threat. So try to be the nice, charming Ward that Nanny Jones thinks you are, not the 'poop with knives-"

"It was a porcupine!" Grant hears Hill protest, accompanied by the thump he hopes was the punch Trip deserves"

"That we all know and love," Trip finishes, sounding winded enough Grant suspects he was right about the hit. "Sending the coordinates now! Gotta run, dance off is about to begin. Merry Christmas!"

Grant isn't able to say any more, since Trip hangs up without waiting for a reply. Not a minute later, his phone chirps to let him know the coordinates are in.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles at the cheery sound, completely at odds with his mood. "Merry fucking Christmas to me."

/

He wasn't far from the safe house when he got the call, just a couple miles, but it takes the better part of an hour get to the backroad that even leads to the turn off to the small cabin, and another half hour before he's there. He'll refuse to admit it when Trip undoubtedly prompts later, but the other agent was right about having to bunker down. As it was, even with SHIELD's state of the art navigation system, the front of the car very nearly made contact with the small cabin before it came into view. No doubt his ride will be buried before morning.

The wind is icy on his face as he pushes his way out of the car, glad he'd stashed his jacket on the seat next to him instead of in the trunk with his go bag. As it is, it's a brutal though short minute getting it out and making his way to the door. He has to find the scanner by feel, and his mood is not improved when a pile of snow is blown off the roof and straight onto him right as his badge is read and the door swings open. Then he's through and kicking what he can of the pile back outside so he can push the door closed.

He's barely turned around after sliding the bolt home when his personal space is invaded. Thankfully the carefully-honed reflexes that have him ready to attack are just as fast at pulling back, because the handsy brunette with apparently no concept of stranger danger has moved to brush snow from him with firm strokes, though he's left to sweep the mess from his hair since she can't reach. She's a tiny thing, this woman who can only be the biochemist. She's a lot younger than he pictured, given her expertise and credentials. He was expecting someone like Weaver, not a pretty little thing with soft-looking lips pursed with concern, wearing…

"Are those _candy canes?_ "

A flush blooms in her cheeks. "They're my Christmas pyjamas."

"I gathered," he says dryly.

She steps back, an expression he can only read as wounded on her face.

"I'll just go put the kettle on then, if you want something to drink," she says, bustling to the small kitchen to fill the kettle, fuss with the stove, and look anywhere but at him. Her arms cross over her stomach almost unconsciously and, though she tries to hide it, she's an open book and he knows without a doubt that he's hurt her feelings.

He bites out a curse that rises from nowhere and lets out a breath slowly.

"Look, it's been a rough night for both of us, and this situation is less than ideal. So… I'm sorry, Dr. Simmons," he says, and genuinely means it.

After a pause almost long enough to have him expecting a long, awkward set of days ahead, she shrugs. "Apology accepted, Agent…" she trails off.

"Ward. Grant," he supplies, then winces internally. If she didn't know his name, she didn't know who to expect through the door. All these scientists are the same when it comes to situational awareness. That is, none of them have an iota of it. He'll leave it for now, though; he's already started this sequestering on a bad foot, no need to completely undo the progress.

"Kettle won't be long," she says. "I'd just boiled it not long ago. Tea's gone a bit stale, and there's only evaporated milk, but it will do in a pinch."

"Thanks," he says. "I'm good, though. Unless you wanted another cup?"

"No, no," she says. "It's quite late, and I wouldn't want to be up all night to using the loo and…" she trails off, shifting uncomfortably. She flicks off the burner, and the silence stretches out as sound of the water percolating dies.

"I'll just secure the place, then" Grant says finally, gesturing around. What he doesn't expect as a reaction is for her to roll her eyes and snort softly under her breath before clasping her hands over her mouth in adorable surprise over her own actions.

"I'm sorry," she says. "That was terribly rude of me. It's just… well, I don't believe I'm truly in that much danger."

"Really? Because my colleague implied there was a bit of a stalker vibe going on, Dr. Simmons."

She waves dismissively. "He's taken to calling himself Kassius and has delusions of grandeur that I doubt can be matched in real life. Even if he has taken to ... stalking me, well, he's certainly have a difficult time tracking me to a SHIELD safe house, even if it weren't snowing hard enough they cancelled my flight home for the holidays."

"Fair point," Grant concedes. "But it's my job. And I take that seriously."

"Very well, Agent Ward. Though I don't imagine it will take you long at all. You've seen most of the place already. There's just the loo," she gestures to a series of closed doors, "a cupboard full of board games, and the bedroom."

"Still," he says, then moves to check the place out. She's not wrong about the time it takes him to go over the place – it really isn't big and the points of egress were already locked tight – but short time or no, she's yawning by the time he's done his sweep.

"I'm sorry," she says, covering her mouth. "It's just been a long day. If you don't mind, I'll just –" she gestures at the little nest of blankets she has on the couch, and it takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that she means to sleep there.

"Dr. Simmons," he says. "You're not sleeping on the couch. You'll take the bedroom, and I'll sleep out here."

"Really, Agent Ward," she shakes her head at him. "I'm not sure what your background is, but you don't need to be a science prodigy to see that, of the two of us, I'm the one more suited to the small sofa."

"It's probably a pull-out," he counters. "And even if it wasn't, I'm the first line of defense."

"Don't be daft. It's highly unlikely that anyone will be coming through that door."

"But not impossible." She sighs, but it cuts off in a yawn. "Come on, doc. You can't win this one. It comes down to it, I'll carry you in there myself."

Her cheeks go absolutely scarlet and her mouth drops open, and for a moment he's tempted to ask her just what kind of visuals are going through her mind, knows he might under any other circumstances. But he's on the job. She's the job.

It doesn't matter that he finds her charming and adorable, or that there's a burgeoning chemistry between them. Chemistry that he's been ignoring since her hands swept down his torso to push snow out of his unzipped jacket, her delicate fingers warm against chilled skin, her chin tilted up in concern and lips near enough to kiss.

She's the job, and he's never regretted anything more than having to watch the door close behind her.

/

The couch, fortunately, does pull out into a decent-sized bed, though the mattress is thin enough he can feel the springs. Still, he's slept on worse surfaces during missions, and at least there are enough blankets he doesn't freeze like that time he had to spoon with Hawkeye and the Black Widow in Alaska. The less said about that disaster the better.

He's been up and quietly doing what he can in terms of a morning workout when the door to the small bedroom creaks and he pauses mid sit-up as it swings open.

"Oh, you're awake," comes Simmons' relieved voice. "I didn't want to wake you, but…" she waves in the way of the washroom. "Do you mind if I shower? I won't be long."

"Go ahead, and take as much time as you want" he says, and she nods. He wonders if she's been waiting awhile, pinned in the room just because she thought he might still be sleeping and not wanting to disturb him. He got the mission files from Coulson last night, and knows enough from what he's read that that's exactly the type of thing she'd do. She's put the safety of others before her own enough times to make him wince, and that's what's on her employee records. He can imagine it extends to putting his supposed comfort above her own.

Sure enough, she's less than eight minutes in the washroom even though he told her she could take as long as she wanted and he knows the place is set up to have more hot water than the two of them could need. She comes out in jeans and a sweater that can only be that ugly on purpose, with its clashing colours, reindeer shapes, and tiny red noses he has a sneaking suspicion light up based on the battery-pack shape he can see tucked into a pocket. She pads back to the little room and he finishes his workout, then jumps in the shower himself.

When he comes out, she's just taking the kettle off the stove.

"Would you like a coffee?" she asks. "I'm afraid there's only instant, but it's one of the better brands, at least. Or there's the tea, or hot cocoa, if you prefer."

"Sure. Coffee's fine."

"Cream or sugar?"

"Nah, I take it black."

She nods and pours him a cup, then finishes fixing her own tea. She takes a little sip and grimaces, then moves to go back to the little room.

"Jemma," he calls just as she reaches the doorway. "You know you don't have to stay locked up in there all day, right?"

"Oh, but I don't want to disturb you." Her forehead wrinkles in adorable concern.

"You won't be disturbing me. I was just going to find something to eat, then maybe read for the rest of the morning."

"Oh. Okay, then." She says. "I'll just get my book. I think there's porridge in the cupboard next to the stove, or there's bread for toast in the freezer."

Neither honestly sound all that appealing, but rations are rations. He finds instant oatmeal where directed and makes himself some, and some for Jemma as well, since its clear she wasn't tempted either, but he's not having her starve on his watch. They eat in a silence that isn't quite comfortable, her tucked into a corner of the couch, a spy novel he wonders if she brought with her or found in the bedroom in one hand, him standing at the counter. When he sits with his own eReader, her bare feet are just inches from his thigh. Every now and again, they twitch or the toes curl, and she's so engrossed in her book that it isn't until she's finished and stretches out and knocks his Kindle that she even realises he's there.

She jumps up, babbling an apology.

"It's fine," he says. "I could use a break anyway."

"I suppose I don't have a choice," she says. "I was hoping to pick up a book at the airport, and that's the only one I've found here. I don't suppose you have one you could loan me?"

"Just the reader on me," he frowns, lifting it.

"Oh," she says. "Well, I'm sure I can find something else to entertain me. There might be a deck of cards with the board games."

"Or we could play one," he offers.

"You don't have to," she says. "I know this likely isn't how you wanted to spend your Christmas, and I don't want to make it worse."

She looks impossibly sad, her hand plucking at the bottom of her sweater, and he'd lay money on her thoughts being on all her own cancelled Christmas plans. He wants her to smile again. He wants to give her Christmas back.

"So what you're saying," he says slowly, before flashing her his most charming grin, "is that you know you can't beat me and you're chicken."

Her head shoots up and her mouth drops open.

"Don't make me make the chicken noises," he mock threatens, walking to the closet to pull out the Scrabble board, shaking it tantalizingly.

A hint of a smile begins to creep onto her face. "I don't know," she says in a lilting tease. "I am a little tempted to see you attempt to cluck. Perhaps I'll even record it on my mobile."

"So you are chicken," he says, as though that confirms it, making as though he's going to put the game back.

"That's fowl play," she says, and he groans. "Alright, you're on."

And so begins a board game show down for the ages.

/

"That isn't a word in our language!"

"Our language? You mean the English language, first spoken in England?"

"Aglet is not a word, you're completely making that up."

"Feel free to use that fancy mobile of yours to challenge me, Agent Ward, but when I'm proven right, your turn is forfeit."

"We'll see whose turn is forfeit when my "fancy mobile" tells me that "aglet" is just a… metal or plastic tube fixed tightly around each end of a shoelace."

"I told you."

"You're very smug for someone whose country lost the revolutionary war –hey! That "I" could have taken out my eye!"

/

"C-9."

"That's another hit! I've not got a single one of yours and that's another hit."

"What can I say? You may be able to use your Britishness against me at Scrabble, but you are the worst tactician I've ever seen."

"Well not all of us can go to spy school."

"Spy school?"

"Whatever you government suit types call it. Now, B-7."

"Miss."

"Bollocks! Right. when this is done, I'm picking the next game. Best two out of three wins. Or three out of five, if you want a fighting chance."

"Big talk from such a little lady, doc."

/

They've pulled out almost every board game and stacked them next to the small coffee table, and he makes it his mission to make her laugh as often as possible. She gets feisty and is surprisingly competitive. Still, she's also a sweetheart, which makes her trash talk ridiculously terrible, and he finds himself smiling more easily than any of his teammates would ever believe.

He likes her seated victory dance when she smugly beats him at Connect Four, and her reaction to her frankly abysmal luck at Snakes and Ladders is hilarious, though her doe-eyed dismay has him contemplating letting her win. He vetoes Scattergories, since he can't challenge her science vocabulary and it's not much fun with two people anyway, and she vetoes Risk, which he concedes is probably a good idea: he's knows for a fact Coulson banned the Avengers from playing after what Banner will only refer to as "The Incident" nearly lead to a full-on inter-team war, for all Wilson tries to blame it on the search for Barnes.

So when she makes a triumphant noise and holds up the Monopoly box, special Avengers edition, he just shrugs and clears the table. She agrees to set up while he heats up a pot of re-hydrated stew, carefully counting out the money from the bank, then biting her lip to hold back giggles he can only guess are from whatever ridiculous self-aggrandizing Stark has managed to stamp on the Board. He's already seen that the Iron Man game piece is bigger than even the Hulk.

"Look, you can even be yourself, this dodgy government-type" she teases, holding up a silver piece he's sure is meant to be Coulson, what with suit and tie and the nonplussed expression on its little cast face.

"Not a chance," he says, handing her a bowl before going to grab his own.

"Captain America?" she guesses. "No, Iron Man!"

"No, and _no_."

"Well, you can't be the Black Widow," she says. "I've already claimed her. Oh, can you put the kettle on, please? I think I'll take that hot cocoa how, if you don't mind."

"Sure," he says, doing to move that. "And obviously, I'll be Thor. He's a supposed god, I've got the abs of a god…"

She sticks her tongue out at him, before standing up, stretching. Then, "oh!" she says and darts into the bedroom, coming out a moment later with a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps.

"I nearly forgot I had this!" she says. "I was going to bring it to my stepmom's Ugly Christmas Sweater party as a Christmas Eve treat, but since I'm missing that…"

"Well, that explains the outfit," he says.

"What? No, my sweater for tonight is in my bag," she says, but his horror is thankfully short-lived, as her lips twitch. She's a terrible liar, and he tells her as much.

"Perhaps," she says. "Would you like some hot cocoa with Schnapps?"

"Still on duty," he shakes his head apologetically. "But don't let that stop you."

"You just think you'll have an easier time winning if I'm sloshed."

"If you get drunk on Peppermint Schnapps, I deserve to win."

She wrinkles her nose at him, giving him a little hip check that moves him absolutely not at all as she moves to the kitchen to prep her drink, taking her bowl with her and digging in. He does the same, and thankfully the stew's not terrible. It's above average, for something that came dehydrated in a bag, and he's thankful that whoever did the shopping for this place did a decent job.

"I just wanted to say thank you," Dr. Simmons says, pulling him from his thoughts. "Not just for making dinner, though there is that, too."

"For… letting you be the Black Widow?"

"No! Well, that, too, I suppose, though I didn't think you'd actually want one of few female game pieces…"

"I'll have you know I have firsthand knowledge that Natasha Romanov is frighteningly awesome, and I would absolutely be the Black Widow given the opportunity, even if her scores mean I don't have the record for espionage at the Academy."

"There IS a spy school!"

"Of course there is," Grant says. "They don't just give anyone a gun and send them into the field. Unless you count Stark, but he basically did that on his own, so…"

"Anyway," she says, her hands wrapped around her mug, her eyes downcast. "Thank you. For making today so … This was the first Christmas in five years I'd been able to go home, and I was feeling rather despondent. But you've made sure that I had something to do rather than focus on missing my family, had fun even, and I can't imagine being sequestered is what you planned with your holiday. So thank you, Agent Ward."

"You're welcome," he says, then "oofs" slightly in surprise when she sets down her drink and impulsively hugs him. She starts to pull away almost immediate, but he finds his arms moving around her of their own volition. He lets himself have five unprofessional seconds, resting his chin on her head and relishing the way she fits in his embrace before he reluctantly loosens his grip. She leans back, looking up at him from under those long lashes, and it's like he's frozen, pulled like a magnet toward her even as he knows he needs to pull away.

It's the chirp of his phone that breaks the spell, and he moves away to pick it up from where he'd tossed it on the couch.

"Ward."

"Is that any way to greet the bearer of great tidings?"

"I hardly think you're an angel, Trip," Grant says dryly. "And that's how I always answer my phone."

"Fair," Trip says.

"About that good news?" Grant prompts.

"You aren't even going to ask a man how he's doing, Ward? Tsk, tsk."

"Fine. How are you recovering from your Stark-induced hangover?"

"I'll have you know I stuck very wisely to bottled beer and stayed far away from anything Stark might have mixed."

"Did he finally succeed in his ongoing attempt to see if he can come up with a concoction that can get a super soldier drunk?" Grants asks, genuinely curious.

"Rogers said he felt a bit of something, but I'm pretty sure he was just taking pity on Stark," Trip says. "Hill, however, was not nearly as wise as I was, so be sure to get that hacker that works with your rotation to get you any footage of her trying to get Fury to swing dance with her that she hasn't yet managed to get scrubbed."

"Roger that," Grant says.

"So… on the good news," Trip finally gets to the point. "CIA laid a trap in one of the hotels not far from where you are holed up, made it look like Dr. Simmons was staying there under their guard. Turns out she was the target after all," Grant hisses, "but Kassius took the bait. While we can't get an extraction for you until tomorrow, he's on his way to a CIA facility and you're officially off duty. In fact, your only mission is to let your hair down. Coulson's orders."

"Coulson is actually ordering me to – "

"Have fun. Yes, he actually made it an order. It's in the file Comms is sending and everything."

"Is it just me, or has Coulson gotten more…"

"Hands-on on his agents' personal lives since he died?"

"So it's not just me, then."

"Nope. And he's especially sappy about it because it's Christmas, so… yeah. You've got Agency-mandated fun on your to do list. Go wild."

"Which I'm supposed to do how, exactly?"

"It's a SHIELD safe house, there's got to be some of that vodka Romanoff likes stashed somewhere," Trip says blithely. "Skip your morning workout. Read a book that isn't a tome of Russian literature."

"Funny."

"I think so," Trip says. "I'll call tomorrow once Coulson lines up the extraction. And Grant? Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Trip."

He hangs up the phone, moves to sit at where Dr. Simmons is sitting expectantly at the monopoly board.

"Good news, Agent Ward?" she says, worrying at her lip.

"Well, I'm officially off duty. Kassius is in custody," he says, watching her shoulders slump in relief. So much for not believing she was in actual danger. "So why don't you mix me up one of those drinks so you can't accuse me of unfair advantage when I decimate you at monopoly?"

"I think that's an excellent idea, Agent Ward, since you'll likely need a stiff drink to comfort you when I beat you soundly," she says saucily.

"Grant," he says gruffly, and she blinks up at him, bewildered. "You should call me Grant, now that I'm … not working."

"Only if you call me Jemma," she says, looking pleased.

"Deal. Jemma," he says, and the smile that stretches across her face is glorious. "High roll goes first?"

"You can start, Grant," she says magnanimously. "You'll need all the advantages you can get. I'm excellent at property management."

/

If he thought she was hilariously intent when playing Connect Four, watching her gleefully buy up properties in Avengeropoly is going to be the death of him. Her sly little looks as she reads her chance and community chest cards, her teasing when he has to go to jail, her gloating when she buys up another property all seems designed to dig her deeper under his skin. He's giving as good as he gets, too: scooping up Widow Way from under her so she can't collect all the Spider-related properties (it's so unfair that there's a Parker Place – Fury won't let the kid join the team officially until he's 18), waving his Get Of Jail Because You Have Excellent Lawyers card in her face, and building the first Stark Tower on Falcon's Crest.

"No," she says, when he holds out his hand for the game piece.

"No?"

"No, I won't allow it," she says, tucking it behind her back and grabbing a small figure with a shield from the discarded box. "That monstrosity will block the river view of this Brooklyn neighbourhood, and I'm sure Captain America won't allow it."

"Monstrosity?" Grant says, snagging the Iron Man piece. "I'm Tony Stark. Stark Towers _make_ the view. Brooklyn should be so lucky!"

"Never! Because of… freedom!" she giggles, waving tiny Captain America in his face.

"That's the worst American accent I've ever heard," he says.

"Your face is the worst American accent," she says, and laughs again.

"That's it," he says. "I'm building my fancy ugly tower and you can't stop me."

She shrieks with laughter as he moves toward her, scooting back until she hits the couch, the tower clutched behind her as he leans over her. She's laughing helplessly as he reaches around, his hand closing over hers.

"Got you," he says lowly.

He's not sure if he moves first, or if she does, he only knows that one second, he's a breath away from her lips, the next the game piece is clattering heedless to the floor as her hands find their way into his hair as his lips find hers. That he's pulling her to straddle him, breaking away only to slide the sweater over her head so his mouth can make a path down her neck to her collarbone then back, leaving her gasping and arching into his touch.

She tastes like chocolate and peppermint, and her skin is soft and warm beneath his calloused fingers. She shivers when he runs a hand up her back, lets out a gorgeous moan as he rocks up beneath her.

"Grant, we should…" she says, her eyes fluttering open, as she leans back on his thighs. He pauses reluctantly, shifting as though to get up. He wants her more than almost anything, but if she wants to stop, he'll stop. He readies himself to let her go.

But the next words, when she gets breath enough to continue, aren't a request to go back to their board game banter.

"We should take this to the bedroom," she's saying as her hands tug at the hem of his shirt. He lets her pull it off him, then finds her lips again, kissing her breathless. "I have – oh! That's… I can't think when you're doing that… I have condoms in my purse, but you'll need to let me get up so we can – oh!"

With the grace his specialist training has given him, he shifts and then rises, her thighs clenching instinctively around his hips as he moves smoothly into a standing position.

"Or," she says, her hands clutching at his shoulders, a smile twitching at her lips, "that's good, too."

"Bedroom?"

"Yes, please."

/

The sound of the phone vibrating on the nightstand pulls him from a warm and comfortable sleep. Jemma makes a noise most closely approximated with a kitten in protest as he untangles himself to pick it up, but doesn't wake fully. He's not surprised: she's got to be tired, since she's the one who woke _him_ up just after midnight for another round, because she felt he "deserved Christmas sex". If he hadn't had much reason to celebrate that holiday before, well, she may have just converted him.

He can't resist running his hand up the smooth skin of her bare back before moving silently out of the room, so his conversation doesn't rouse her.

"Ward," he says, rolling his eyes when Trip sighs. "Get over it, Trip, that's how I pick up my phone."

"Took you long enough to pick up," Trip says. "Have a little too much of Romanoff's vodka?"

"Didn't touch the stuff," Grant says.

"Man, what was your one mission?"

"If you'd smelled the stuff, you'd have passed, too. There's being off duty and there's drinking something that would probably make you go blind, so…"

"I'll give you that one," Trip says. "Maybe I'll suggest it to Stark to add to the Super Soldier punch next year."

"You do that."

"Speaking of off duty, we've got your extraction plan. A Quinjet's gonna be free in about an hour, so we can send it to pick you up, get you to the Hub, maybe take a short assignment if you don't want the break before going back to your cover. Dr. Simmons can drive the car back to the airport, leave it and make flights arrangements from there. May'll be on the stick, so you don't even have to find somewhere to rendezvous. She's good to come right to you."

"Does May have another assignment after, or she just being assigned to the extract?" he asks.

"Just the extract, I think. Why?"

"I've got a favour to ask," Grant says slowly. "If you think you can swing it."

"Lay it on me, man."

/

"Jemma."

"'S'it morning already?" comes the sleepy voice from the pillows.

"It is." He's showered and dressed, let her sleep as long as he could, but time's running short.

"Well, wake me when it's afternoon, then."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, or you'll miss your ride home."

"Home?"

She rolls over to peer up at him, her hair a messy halo on the pillow. He smiles at her, and she can't help but smile back.

"Home," he confirms. "Faster than commercial, too. Factoring in the time change, you should get in only a little late for your Christmas supper."

"Really?" She sits up, her eyes welling with tears. He drops a quick kiss to her temple.

"Really," he says. "Quinjet will be here in half an hour, tops. You should have just enough time to shower and pack."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

If he thought her smile was blinding before, this one puts it to shame. She throws her arms around him, then hops out of the bed, and he has the pleasure of watching her unabashedly pull her things from her bag before running to the shower, completely nude and gorgeous.

She hugs him again when he hands off her duffle bag before she gets on the plane. She's as keenly aware of May's eyes as he is, he thinks, because when she rises on her toes, she kisses his cheek.

"Happy Christmas, Agent Ward," she says, and if her eyes say more, neither of them mention it, though Grant does catch the quirk of May's lips. No doubt she'll be carrying tales to their nosy-ass boss. Good thing Coulson is a softie with a huge weakness for romance.

Grant watches the Quinjet rise and move beyond the horizon before going to the cabin to pack his own things. He didn't bring much, so it doesn't take long before he sees Jemma's sweater, slipped partway between the wall and the arm of the couch, tossed there in haste last night.

He tucks it into his bag. He's due another break from his op in a couple of weeks. It'll be an excellent time to return it to her in person.


End file.
